


My tongue upon your scars

by ariadnes_string



Category: Homeland
Genre: Bloodplay, F/M, Knifeplay, Porn Battle, Wall Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-06
Updated: 2013-02-06
Packaged: 2017-11-28 10:26:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/673356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ariadnes_string/pseuds/ariadnes_string
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Spare me the outrage," Quinn said.  "We’re the hard cases, you and me.  We’re playing the long game.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	My tongue upon your scars

**Author's Note:**

> a/n: A late porn battle entry. The prompts were "knife" and "rough."  
> a/n: Title from the Springsteen song, "Worlds Apart."

There was no one in the control room but Quinn. Even the monitors were empty, showing nothing bt grainy hallways and corners lit by streetlamps.

Quinn greeted her without turning around and Carrie paused in the doorway, watching the florescent light glint off the blade of his knife.

It spun on its point on the desktop, and Quinn wasn’t looking at it, just giving the handle a twist to set it going, then catching it as it fell to one side or another, seemingly by instinct alone.

The thoughtless dexterity of his movements reminded Carrie of boys she’d seen in souks and village squares, advertising their skill and looking for someone to practice it on. Not the kind of thing analysts usually brought to mind.

Quinn caught the knife mid-spin and finally turned his head. He must have seen something worth deriding in her stare because he said, “Wanna touch it?” with a cruel turn of his lips.

“No thanks.” Carrie came to stand beside him, eyes on the monitors and hands on her hips. “I’ve touched more than my share of knives.”

“I bet you have,” Quinn said, pleased as punch as his own innuendo.

They stood like that for a while: the monitors flickering; the blade twirling and almost toppling; Quinn catching it, again and again. 

Finally, Carrie could stand it no longer. She reached out and grabbed the handle. As her fingers closed around Quinn’s, it occurred to her that this must be the same knife he’d stabbed through Brody’s hand. She looked up, aghast that she’d been too lost in her memories of knife-fighters to realize sooner.

Quinn’s smile was somewhere far to the east of kind. “Spare me the outrage, babe. You’re not really shocked. We’re the hard cases, you and me. We’re playing the long game.”

In retaliation, she seized the knife for real, got enough of a jump on Quinn to slam his hand to the table and prick the space between the knuckles of his second and third fingers.

He didn’t struggle. Instead, she heard their breath catch at the same time.

“Not here,” Quinn said in a voice she’d never heard from him before, thin and strained and yearning.

+

Carrie could remember the numbness that followed ECT. A numbness that had worked itself into the very core of her, had left her limbs, her thoughts, her soul itself, like lead.

And so even though she knew it was probably a bad idea to let Peter Quinn unbutton her blouse in a men’s room stall, to let him pull her bra straps over her shoulders and carve a tiny half-moon three inches above her left nipple, she couldn’t help but bless the pain. 

And when he put his mouth to the cut and sucked, muttering, “Jesus, Carrie, fuck,” the pain blurred into something so intense she banged her head back against the metal side of the stall and dug her fingers into his short hair to bring him closer.

The knife clattered to the floor.

Carrie pulled at the button of his jeans, pushed the zipper down with the back of her hand and palmed him. He was thicker than she’d expected, already most of the way hard. She hummed in appreciation, and tugged a little.

“Hang on,” Quinn said, and fished something out of his back pocket. 

“You are such a cliché,” Carrie said, when she heard the _rip_ of a condom wrapper. “Expecting a fuck every time you leave home.”

“Am I wrong?” he asked, so smug Carrie wanted to punch him. 

Instead, she let him push her own trousers down around her ankles, slide a hand into her panties and then two fingers inside her—abrupt, sure, but she was so wet already it didn’t matter. He ground his palm into her clit and Carrie rocked—bucked—into it, the metal wall of the cubicle cold against her ass and his shirt catching on the cut on her chest until even that distance was too great.

Then she kicked away her panties, braced one foot on the toilet and let him hook her other leg over his hip. 

Another time, another man, and she might have worried about the strain holding her weight would put on his healing gut wound. But right now she almost hoped she’d hurt him. She thought she wouldn’t mind seeing him come apart at the seams.

It took some pushing and shoving, a few grunts of effort, before they could get the position right—until she could bear down onto him as he thrust up into her, pubic bones and hip bones colliding in a way Carrie knew she’d feel the next day. That was good—anticipation of the bruises and sore sports was a turn on in itself. 

And yet it wasn’t enough. She dug the heel of the leg slung around him into his ass until he got the message and slammed her harder into the metal wall. That was better: she wanted, needed, to feel the force of this in every atom of her body. He was pushing her so far off the ground now that she could grab the top of the stall and she used that for purchase as she pressed back into him.

They were being reasonably quiet—Quinn because he had his face buried in her neck—sucking or biting, she couldn’t tell—and Carrie because she was literally biting her lips—but anybody coming into the men’s room would’ve been able to hear the thud of their bodies against the metal, would’ve noticed her pale, female hand curled over the top of the stall.

The mere thought of that, of being seen, took her close to the edge, and as Quinn’s thrusts grew faster and less regular, she let herself make a sound, a keening deep in her throat that became a vibration through all the rest of her, until she felt herself clenching around him and a pure, liquid sweetness in her veins.

They milked their climaxes for longer than Carrie would’ve expected, shallow thrusts and squeezes, lapping at their pleasure even as it receded.

Finally, though, Quinn’s legs started to shake. He gasped, “Carrie, I can’t…” and sank to the floor in a controlled collapse, bringing her down with him. 

They disentangled themselves and Quinn tied off the condom and dumped it in the toilet.

“Convenient,” Carrie noted, and they shared a short laugh.

It was a well-maintained building, and the bathroom was probably as clean as one could hope. It still smelled faintly of men, however, now with a layer of sex over it. Carrie shivered, and started to pull the edges of her shirt together.

“Hey.” Quinn put out a hand to stop her. He traced a finger under the red line on her breast. It had been a graze, nothing more. The blood has already stopped and she didn’t think it would scar. “Carrie. I—“

His voice had softened, as if he were about to say something gentle. She didn’t want to hear it. Whatever she felt for Nicholas Brody, it had to do with the way their broken places fit together, the way it felt like she'd known him her whole life, and that was already more tenderness that she could bear. She didn't know Peter Quinn and she didn't want to. She needed him to be unbroken, as smooth and brutal as his knife.

“We’ve left those monitors unsupervised too long,” she told him, moving away from his hand and gathering up her scattered clothes.


End file.
